Psychopaths
by EmeraldWings1992
Summary: Alfendi and Sherlock have found a kindred spirit in each other. Their friendship was formed from that deep connection. Then Forbodium happened, and Alfendi woke up a changed man. This didn't stop Sherlock from looking out for the young man, but it did create another, interested person. Mortiarty. Now, both Alfendi and Luke are missing, and Hershel turns to Sherlock to find them.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Hey guys! This is my newest story, a Sherlock (BBC) cross-over with the Layton Brothers: Mystery Room. This chapter starts just after "The Blind Banker" in the Sherlock timeline, and just as Alfendi, Justin, and Hilda are put on the Jigsaw Puzzle Killings case.

There are many callbacks to some of my other stories in the end of this chapter.

1\. Flora and Eric (my OC) are married ( _Flora Reinhold: City of Gold)_.

2\. Luke is not there as he is leading his own successful archeology career and is at a dig in Africa (Many of my stories, starting with _The Professor's Apprentice_ ).

3\. Mary, Alfendi's mom, is Mary Ledore, younger sister of Henry Ledore, and biological mother of Kat. She's a cultural anthropologist who studies Latin American cultures ( _Second Chances_ ).

4\. Alfendi is adopted; his biological father was a serial killing psychopath. Alfendi himself is a psychopath, undiagnosed because Hershel knew. He didn't need a doctor to tell him that much. He made damn well sure that Alfendi was a high functioning psychopath, at least ( _Professor Layton and the Seer_ _)_.

Hm… can't think of anything else. I edited this to add Mary to the chapter, and to better explain the origins of each callback (see above).

Alfendi is 24, Sherlock is 36, and John is 40. Well, here we go!

…

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was, by no means, a patient man. Most of Scotland Yard knew to get out of his way when he would whisk his way into the squad rooms, trailed by his ever present, and ever faithful companion, Dr. John Watson.

Sherlock didn't care if the person he was determined to see, usually Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, was meeting with an officer. He'd sweep into the man's office all the same, demanding evidence, information, or an interesting case (nothing lower than a seven, of course).

It was one of these times, when Lestrade was in the middle of an extremely important meeting, that Sherlock swept into his office, his mouth already moving.

"Lestrade. I demand to see those files on the Jigsaw Puzzle Killings. How dare you not include me? You're obviously out of your depth here. This is the most interesting thing that happened in a decade. It's practically Christmas!"

John rolled his eyes at the obvious glee in his friend's voice.

"Sherlock, not now. I'm in the middle of a meeting _,_ " the long-suffering Detective Inspector replied. Sherlock glanced at the other young man in the room, ready to write him off as another witless rookie, when something about the young man caught his eye.

Basic information about him immediately sprang to Sherlock's mind: 24 years old. Came from an old-fashioned home. Got into a few fights when younger. No mother figure. Two siblings. No pets. Armed, right-hip holster under his suit jacket. Sherlock saw this in a matter of seconds, but it was the man's gold eyes he focused on. They were sharp, taking in everything about Sherlock himself. _Observing_.

"Detective. Not private. A consulting detective then," the man said. It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Is that the best you can do?" he asked, before glancing at John. "He must read your blog."

"On the contrary," the man said before John could answer, "I've never read it in my life. You come from money. Older sibling. Play the violin." The man sniffed. "And experiment with chemicals and dismembered body parts."

The room was silent. John and Lestrade looked between Sherlock and the young inspector.

"Bloody hell, there's two of them," Lestrade groaned. "They even look similar. Just die his hair black and we'd have another bloody Holmes…"

John smiled sympathetically, slapping the Detective Inspector on the shoulder.

"Good luck, mate. You'll need it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Sherlock suddenly said. The younger man smirked, holding a hand out. Sherlock shook it.

"Alfendi Layton. Inspector. And the Jigsaw Puzzle Killings are mine." Alfendi's smirk grew into a full blown grin. "My, it really must be Christmas!" he added, before looking over at the dumbfounded Lestrade. "I'll be taking my leave now, sir. Murders to investigate and all that." His hand dropped from Sherlock's, and he swept out of the room, just as dramatically as Sherlock had entered. Sherlock stared after the man, his eyes narrowed slightly, his mouth stretched into a tight, lipless line.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking at his friend.

"I don't know if I like him or despise him," Sherlock admitted, before looking at John. "Either way, at least he's not dull. Or an idiot."

…

Sherlock and Alfendi met for the second time at a crime scene. This one had nothing to do with the Jigsaw Murders, but Alfendi was the only available Inspector at the moment, and Sherlock had been hired by the victim's parents to find her.

"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson," Alfendi said as he stepped out of his car, spotting the two men on the side of the road where a body had been reported only twenty minutes ago. Sherlock stood and spun on his heel to face the young man.

"Inspector. I thought you were busy with the Jigsaw Puzzle Murders?" he asked, still a little rankled at not being brick walled by just this Inspector, but also Interpol. Alfendi shrugged slightly.

"Slow day," he grumbled irritably. Sherlock tipped his head to the side slightly, recognizing something about the young man. Like Sherlock himself, Alfendi Layton got _bored._ Today seemed to be one of those days.

John seemed to notice it too, but didn't mention it. Instead, he focused on their victim.

"She died of asphyxiation. She was drunk, collapsed, and choked on her own vomit," he announced, standing. The two geniuses looked at the doctor for a moment, before he sighed and stepped away, letting them take a look.

"Early twenties," Sherlock immediately observed.

"Hasn't showered in two days," Alfendi added.

"Rope marks on her wrists. Too dark to be recreational."

"No blood under her nails. Tied up until she was already dead."

"Mud on her shoes doesn't match that of around here. Clearly she didn't walk here then."

"Tire tracks on the road that swerve towards here. You two arrive by taxi?"

"Yes, but I made him stop at the corner. I assure you, Inspector, no car other than yours has parked here since the murderer's."

"A kill and drop then."

"Look at the tire prints. The rear passenger wheel is new, the rest old."

"I see. The front driver's could do with a little more air."

"So, a car with a new wheel and a slightly flat wheel. Not the most systematic killer."

"Well, that's no fun at all."

John's head turned from one man to the other as each spoke rapidly.

"I agree," Sherlock sighed. "Incredibly dull, actually. John and I had already discovered that she was sleeping over her boyfriend's the past week and a half after arguing with her father. Do you remember the car, John?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow at the doctor.

"Er…" John mumbled, trying to think back. Try as he might, he couldn't remember the wheels. He realized he'd probably never even looked at them. "Not exactly."

"Of course," Alfendi snapped. Sherlock whipped out his phone and brought up a picture of the car, showing it to the two men.

"Back passenger tire is brand new. Front driver's tire is slightly flat. Inspector, I believe we have found your killer," Sherlock said. Alfendi's mouth quirked, and the two detectives quickly exchanged numbers so that Sherlock could send Alfendi the pictures.

"I don't say this often, but thank you for not being completely useless," Alfendi said. Sherlock smirked, pushing in hands into his pockets and pulling his long coat more around himself.

"I could say the same to you. Come along, John. We have to meet with our client. I believe you should tell her what we discovered," he said, whipping around and striding off.

"Er, right," John muttered, nodding to Alfendi before hurrying to catch up to his taller friend's long strides.

…

Since that day, Alfendi and Sherlock consulted each other quite a bit. Despite Alfendi staking a claim on the Jigsaw Puzzle killings, he would talk to Sherlock about the more bizarre, seemingly unrelated killings, while Alfendi acted as a liaison into New Scotland Yard when Lestrade was busy or annoyed with Sherlock.

When they weren't working on a case, they found enjoyment in simply talking to each other. Alfendi, of course, never took John's place in Sherlock's eyes (after all, John is the only person Sherlock would ever entrust his life with), but the two geniuses had found a kindred spirit in the other. One was a self-identified, high-functioning scociopath, the other an undiagnosed, high-functioning psychopath.

They understood the plights of each other's intelligence when it came to boredom, found pleasure in comparing some of their favorite, more gruesome crimes, and delighted in making a fool of Anderson.

John and Greg weren't entirely sure it was the healthiest relationship for either man, but neither had the heart (or power) to end it. And if Sherlock's all-knowing brother, or Alfendi's well-meaning father, thought it was bad, neither made a move to stop it.

…

Lestrade slowly walked up the seventeen steps that lead to 221B Baker Street, his heart heavy. This was his third stop of the same business. First to his father's, then to his sister's. This stop wasn't exactly required, but he knew he should be the one to tell Sherlock before the Consulting Detective found out a different way.

"Come in, Lestrade," Sherlock's deep baritone called before the man could fully reach the slightly open door. He sighed and gently pushed open the door. John sat in his normal armchair, pounding away at the keyboard, no doubt typing his latest blog post, while Sherlock stood on top of the coffee table, studying a web of pictures that was posted to the wall above the couch. He made sure, of course, to keep the spray painted and bullet formed smiley face free of papers. John glanced up at the detective, curious.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, his voice heavy. Sherlock looked over, his eyebrows drawing together.

"What's happened?" he demanded, hopping down from the coffee table. John put his laptop aside and stood.

"Well, Layton did it. He solved the Jigsaw Puzzle killings," the detective started, crossing his arms and looking away.

"Yes, we discussed it earlier. Keelan Makepeace. He was holed up at Forbodium Castle. Al called his partners and went on ahead," Sherlock explained. Lestrade shook his head. This was going to be harder then he thought, if these two were close enough for Layton to tell an unofficial that much.

"That's the thing. Lawson and Pertinax got there… too late," Lestrade sighed. Sherlock stiffened. John stood.

"Too late?" Sherlock demanded, his voice lower than normal.

"Lawson found them on the roof. Both had drawn their guns. Makepeace was dead," Layton explained.

"And Alfendi?" John asked. Lestrade sighed.

"Unconscious, in a coma. One bullet to the stomach. Lawson, Pertinax, and… the commissioner are convinced that Alfendi shot Makepeace, even before Makepeace turned his gun on him. Pertinax heard Lawson yelling at him to not shoot. Unfortunately, there's no way of knowing that until Layton wakes up. If… he wakes up." Lestrade realized he was rambling and fell quiet, watching the young man in front of him. Alfendi and Sherlock had become something akin to a friends. But now there was no way of knowing if the younger Inspector would ever open his eyes again.

Sherlock's face was impassive. Expressionless. John glanced at Lestrade.

"We'll go visit him later. Thank you, Lestrade."

"Er, right. I'll be off then," the man said self-consciously, stepping out of the room. John watched him go, before turning to Sherlock. The expressionless mask stayed frozen on his face as he turned briskly on his heel and scooped up his violin. He sawed away at it, creating a chaotic, sad song.

…

Sherlock had visited Alfendi once when he was investigating Makepeace's 'murder,' but all evidence, both on Alfendi and on that roof, had been destroyed ( _how odd,_ he thought). He questioned Hilda and the Commissioner (a kind old man, a bit of a fool, but wise enough to know when someone was smarter then himself), and attempted to question Justin, but something always came up.

It was now eight months later. Sherlock leaned against the frame of the window, a small smile playing on his lips as he remembered his most recent adventure: rescuing The Woman from a particularly nasty beheading in some Middle East country. He flipped her now blank mobile around in his fingers before placing it in the drawer of his desk.

Suddenly, his phone beeped. Sherlock scooped it up, quickly checking the message. It was from his brother, and it was short, but it caused the detective to freeze.

' _He's awake.' – MH_

Sherlock stuffed the mobile into his pocket and fairly flew down the steps, snatching his jacket and scarf from the knobs next to the door and bursting out into the rain. John, who was just exiting Speedy's Café, caught sight of the detective as he hailed a cab.

"Sherlock?" he called, jogging after the man. "Is there a case?" he asked. Sherlock simply looked at him, holding the door open to the taxi that had just magically appeared at his summons.

"No case. He's awake. Get in."

"He's— _Alfendi!?_ " John gasped before quickly scurrying into the taxi. Sherlock folded himself gracefully into the car, slammed the door shut, and announced that the driver was to take them to St. Bart's.

John fidgeted the entire drive. Sherlock immediately noticed, but stared out the window.

"What?"

"Well, it's just, he's been in a coma for eight months."

"And sixteen hours."

"Er, right. It's just, that's a long time, y'know?"

"Yes. Point?"

"Sherlock, what if he's not the same? He went through a traumatic experience. A lot of people who wake up from comas are… _different._ He might not be the same Alfendi Layton we met at the start of the whole Jigsaw Puzzle mess," John explained. Sherlock turned and looked at his friend, knowing he was worried about his reaction. And John had the distinct advantage of medical training and knowledge to back up this claim. Sherlock had, of course, made his peace with the fact that Alfendi might not wake up after all and had moved on with his life. Yes, he had been disappointed that the young, bright man who had been so much like himself, and _good_ , had been lost, but caring, as he had very recently learned from The Woman, was not an advantage.

And yet, when he received that text from Mycroft, Sherlock experienced a strange sensation. His heart lifted in hope. It had _soared._

"We cross that bridge when we reach it," Sherlock finally said, opening the door and escaping as the taxi stopped in front of the hospital. John sighed, paid the cab fare, and followed the taller man.

…

Alfendi's room was somewhat crowded. His father, Hershel, sat at the young man's right, while his sisters, Flora and Kat, as well as Flora's husband, Eric, stood around the aged professor. His mom, Mary, had her arm wrapped around Kat, talking quietly to Alfendi. Violet, Alfendi's four-year-old niece, sat in Hershel's lap. Hilda and Justin were in the corner, while a doctor checked on Alfendi.

Sherlock froze in the door, taking in Alfendi's appearance. The man was, of course, even skinnier then the last time Sherlock had seen him. Both his hair and eyes seemed to have dulled in color, and rather than the tight-as-a-spring way he had held himself, the man's posture was as loose as cooked spaghetti. _He just woke up. He's weak. He'll be back to himself in no time,_ Sherlock thought firmly, taking a step forward.

"Alfendi. It's good to see you awake," Sherlock said with a nod to the young man. Alfendi looked up at Sherlock and gave him a languid smile that was completely different from the sharp smirks he wore before.

"It's good to be awake, Sherlock," Alfendi agreed. Sherlock noticed the different people in the room exchange worried looks, including John. However, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"I attempted to mount an investigation into the incident at Forbodium. Care to fill me in?" he said.

"Is this really the time—" Flora began, but Alfendi held up a hand.

"No, it's alright. Honestly, Sherlock, I'm surprised at you. I thought you would have figured it out by now."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at Alfendi's words.

"I shot first. Twenty-six murders is nothing to sneeze at. I let hot-headedness get the better of me, and…" Alfendi shrugged. "I shot first. Then again when he shot me. I'm not sure if it was my first or second shot that killed him, but it could have only been me, right?"

It was like the room had shattered. Alfendi's family was, obviously, quite upset at this, although little Violet had no clue what was happening. Sherlock dully noted disbelief on the adults' faces. Hilda was positively beside herself, while John had gasped softly. Even Alfendi's doctor seemed disturbed by this confession. The only three who didn't react to these words were Sherlock, Justin, and Alfendi himself.

At least, not visibly. Because, while Sherlock remained impassive on the outside, he was tearing apart the room dedicated to this mystery in his mind palace, searching for something, _anything_ to prove Alfendi wrong and to bring back the brash, energetic man he had once been.

John was right. Alfendi was different.

…

 **A/N:** And here you have it!


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I edited the last chapter (slightly) to include Mary Ledore (now Mary Layton), the Professor's current wife, biological mother of Kat, and, obviously, adopted mother of Alfendi.

I also adjusted the last A/N to make it clearer where each callback came from within my built up universe.

This jumps forward four years. Right before the events of _Mystery Room_ and _Reichenbache Fall._

Alfendi is 29, Sherlock is 40, John is 44, Luke is 37, Hershel is 62, and Violet is 8.

…

Chapter One

Sherlock walked briskly through the main room of New Scotland Yard, carrying two take away cups from the nearby coffee shop. Sally Donavon glanced up, watching the Consulting Detective's brisk pace.

"No doubt here to see the other _freak_ ," she muttered, going back to her work. Sherlock's sharp ears picked up the slur, but he ignored it, descending the steps into the basement.

Ever since Alfendi woke up four years ago, people treated him even worse than they had before. It didn't help that everyone knew he shot Keelan Makepeace. Now, the brilliant Inspector had been shoved into an overcrowded office in the basement, isolated from most of the other officers.

Sherlock descended the stairs and walked swiftly down the hall. He stopped at a door that contained the name plate "London's New Scotland Yard Serious Crime Division Classified Investigation Agency Headquarters." Such a pompous name. Sherlock liked Alfendi's name for his office much more: The Mystery Room. He tapped on it with his foot.

"Come in," Alfendi called. Sherlock pushed open the door, used his elbow to clear off a spot on the paper covered desk, and sat the coffees down.

"Alfendi. You called me?" he said, turning towards the man in question. Alfendi had changed in the past four years. His hair had grown to his shoulders and was pulled back into a ponytail. Gone were the days of Alfendi in a suit; he now wore a long, white jacket with a red and blue striped jumper and dark jeans beneath. The man smiled lazily at Sherlock, giving a nod.

"Yes. Thanks for coming, Sherlock," he said, his gold eyes flickering over the other man. "I have an interesting case should be right up your alley, and you've mentioned wanting to check out my device," he said, motioning to the small device in the corner. Sherlock knew that Alfendi hated leaving the office now, so he developed a device that would project a 3D image of the crime scene that was completely interactive. Sherlock, of course, was interested in the inner workings of the device, and Alfendi knew this.

Sherlock's lips twitched.

"I've never known you to ask for help," he said. Alfendi chuckled softly.

"Honestly, I'm 86.7 percent sure of the killer. I just thought you would be interested in the case," Alfendi admitted. Sherlock smiled and walked over to the device, Alfendi at his elbow. The latter activated the device, and the crime scene appeared. Sherlock's thirsty eyes drunk everything in as he began investigating.

…

Sherlock had never enjoyed investigating a crime from a distant location as much as he had with Alfendi's device. It was almost like being right on the scene, but without having to deal with annoying, dim-witted people.

Alfendi himself was different. Calmer, more lethargic. Less inclined to talk about gruesome murders. But he never lost his edge. He was still the smartest person on the force, in Sherlock's not so humble opinion. He was just disappointed that such an intellect had be so ostracized. Hell, it was a miracle that Alfendi was still on the force to begin with. One Sherlock accredited to the Commissioner, who was an old friend of Hershel's.

As Sherlock walked up the steps, he had to move slightly to the side for a man descending. His eyes quickly took in the man's appearance. Mid to late thirties, happily married, tanned at his arms and face, but not below his collar. His first thought was a soldier, but the man's posture and hair cut spoke otherwise. Sherlock's eyes flickered again to the man's hands. Dry, cracked, those of a worker, with dirt caked beneath his nails. The man was wearing a satchel with an American University's logo on it. A scholar. He must be an Archeologist based out of America, who had recently worked in the field. Sherlock nodded briskly to the man and continued on his way.

The man had nodded back with a friendly smile before continuing to The Mystery Room. He tapped lightly on the door.

"Come in?" Alfendi called, confused. The archeologist opened the door and stepped in. Alfendi smiled warmly.

"Luke. Finally done in Africa?" the young Inspector asked.

"Yep," Luke said with a smile, letting the door close and going over and sitting in the chair. "I decided to visit you all and the Professor before heading back to America," he said, dropping his satchel next to a chair and flopping into it. "It's… been a while."

"And you've been worried about me. That's why you came here before going to anyone else," Alfendi said. Luke shrugged with a smile, not denying it.

"Yeah. Also, I was thinking, me and you can go get some dinner," Luke suggested. He knew Alfendi was aware of how different he was between now and before the coma, and he knew the younger man tended to get uncomfortable at full family gatherings, especially with how uncomfortable Violet was around him now. It was for that reason that he didn't expect him to show up to family dinner tomorrow.

Alfendi seemed to read Luke's mind, and smiled, giving a small nod.

"Sure. Let me finish this paperwork, then we can go to Angelo's.

…

 **A/N:** Yes, Luke is married in my universe, to Pearl Fey (Ace Attorney). She stayed at home while he was away, leading a dig in Africa. Maybe I'll later come up with what he was researching.

And yes, he and Pearl have a kid, but I haven't developed this child yet. I do know (s)he is only a year younger then Violet.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This happens the day after the last chapter. I just realized that Layton's legacy of mysteries he's solved would totally be an inspiration for Sherlock who, at the time of a bulk of Layton's mysteries, Sherlock would have been 12.

…

Chapter Two

Hershel Layton was no longer an active archeologist. He was still a professor, but he had a lot of free time now.

Or he did, until he agreed to be babysit for Flora and Eric. Eight-year-old Violet Shiner was the spitting image of her mother, with her father's dark blond hair. She was also smart and loved mysteries and puzzles. This was something she really connected to her grandfather with.

Today was one of those days where Flora and Eric were in desperate need of a babysitter, and Hershel was more than happy to comply and take her to the park.

"Tell me another one, tell me another one!" Violet chanted as Hershel pushed her on the swings. Hershel smiled, thinking for a moment, before nodding.

"Alright, here you go. 'It is three in the morning when there is a knock on your door. It is your parents, visiting for breakfast. They bring bread and jam. You have tea. What do you open first?'" Hershel asked. Violet's lips puckered slightly as she thought the riddle over.

"You said three in the morning? When it's still dark out, right?" Violet asked. Hershel hummed in confirmation. "Then it would be your eyes, silly!" she called with a huge grin. "Because they would wake you up!"

"Correct again, my dear," Hershel said with a smile. Suddenly, he heard a muffled _ding!_ He looked around, searching for the source of the sound.

"Oh!" Violet gasped, before digging her feet into the ground, stopping the swing. "That's your mobile, Grandpa!" she said, hopping up and shoving her hand into Hershel's pocket, pulling out the phone. Hershel himself let out a sigh.

He really couldn't stand the device in his granddaughter's hands, but Flora, Kat, and Alfendi had all convinced him to get one in case of emergency, especially now that he was babysitting.

Violet quickly unlocked the phone and looked at it.

"Uh, I know I'm not good at reading, but this doesn't make sense," she pouted. Hershel crouched down next to the girl.

"Let me see," he said gently, taking the phone. He studied the message, surprised that it came from Luke's number. The message itself, like Violet had said, made no sense.

 _VTI HWTGADRZ_. Attached was a picture of a salad.

"It's a code," he muttered, thinking for a moment. Violet looked at the phone again.

"Is that a Caesar Salad?" she asked. "I don't like Caesar. Or salad," she added with a curl of her lip. Hershel smiled at that before looking at the phone again. Suddenly, he gasped.

"That's it! It's a Caesar shift cipher," he explained.

"What's that?" Violet asked. Hershel smiled.

"It's simple. Each letter is replaced by one that is 15 places further down in the alphabet," he explained, looking at the message again. His mind quickly decoded it.

"'Get Sherlock'?" he muttered. Of course, he knew who Sherlock was. Sherlock Holmes was quickly becoming famous as a Consulting Detective. Beyond that, he had become pretty close to Alfendi. However, why Luke would send him this message now, especially since the young man should be heading back to America at this point, was the bigger mystery.

"Sherlock? That friend of Uncle Fendi's?" Violet asked. Hershel nodded, quickly dialing another number. Alfendi's. He wanted to ask Alfendi if he could trace Luke's phone.

It went straight to voice mail. The last time this had happened, he was found on the roof of Forbodium. Hershel's breath caught in his throat.

"Grandpa?" Violet asked as Hershel slowly lowered the phone from his ear. He slipped the electronic back into his pocket and took her hand.

"Come along, dear. We need to visit Mr. Holmes," he said.

…

Sherlock was bored. The case Alfendi had given him yesterday was interesting, but now he was going out of his mind. He fidgeted in his chair, annoyed with John's content to reading the morning paper. He drummed on the arms of his chair, his left leg bouncing with the speed of a jack hammer. John ignored him. He drummed louder, attempting to annoy his flat mate, and finally succeeded. John lowered the paper slightly, his dark eyes glaring over the top of it at the fidgeting man.

"What, Sherlock?" he snapped.

"Bored."

"Then find something to do," John said, raising the paper again.

"Can I borrow your gun?"

"No."

"Ugh." Sherlock hopped up, folding his long legs underneath his body so that he crouched in his chair. He pressed his fingertips together, holding them just in front of his mouth. He stared at his flat mate as though he could read his mind through the newspaper.

John, obviously, could feel it. He slammed the paper down in his lap.

"What?" he snapped.

"You and Ginger broke up," Sherlock said. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Your phone is gloriously silent and you haven't touched your laptop."

"Maybe she's just busy," John said, lifting the paper.

"Oh no. That woman would text no matter what. Driving, eating, in the loo. Even spending time with her parents. Especially you, her lovely Johnny-poo," Sherlock crooned. John winced at the horrid pet-name Ginger had given him. He lowered the paper with a sigh.

"Yes. We broke up."

"Good. I never liked her. She was dull. Even that teacher was much more interesting. And what kind of name is _Ginger_?" Sherlock shuddered.

"Her name," John replied. A small smile crept across his face. "Though she was quite horrible, huh?" the doctor asked. Sherlock grinned.

"The worse." The man shook his head. "Especially since she broke up with you because of the severed head in the fridge."

"Yeah… that's what did it," John replied, looking over at the fridge.

"You did that on purpose. You wanted to be rid of her," Sherlock deduced.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I knew it would work. The first time I saw a severed head in there, _I_ nearly broke up with you," John replied. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, before the two broke into laughter.

Just then, there was a ring at the doorbell. They looked at each other.

"Just once," John said.

"Medium pressure. Worried, yet polite," Sherlock replied. They looked at each other.

"A case," they said in unison. Mrs. Hudson showed Professor Hershel Layton and his granddaughter in.

"Professor," Sherlock said. Most people were never on the receiving end of his respect, but he'd followed the Professor's career from an early age. In Sherlock's eyes, Hershel was brilliant. At first he came across as dull, but there was a deep well of knowledge and wit behind the man's eyes. It was no wonder, then, that Alfendi had turned out so smart, even if Sherlock knew right away that Alfendi had been adopted.

"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson," the professor said, nodding to the two men. Violet, who was holding Hershel's hand, waved brightly.

"What can we do for you?" Sherlock asked, unfolding his legs from beneath him and standing from the chair.

"It's about an old friend of mine, Luke Triton," the Professor said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and handing it to Sherlock. "He sent me this text about twenty minutes ago. It's a Caesar Shift cipher."

"What does it say?" John asked, looking over the younger man's shoulder.

"'Get Sherlock,'" Sherlock answered, his mind even quicker than the professor's at decoding it. "However, I've never been formally introduced to this Luke Triton," he added, glancing at the contact picture. It was of a young man, mid/late-thirties, with a bright smile, wearing a blue hat. He was a bit paler in that picture, but Sherlock immediately recognized him as the American Archeologist he passed at New Scotland Yard yesterday. Another realization occurred to him as he glanced at the professor. This man was the same boy who helped Hershel on several of his cases years ago.

"That's why I don't think it was actually from Luke," Hershel admitted quietly. "I tried to call Alfendi, to ask him to track Luke's phone. After all, Luke is supposed to be on his way home from Africa right now. But Alfendi's phone went straight to voice mail."

"It did?" Sherlock asked sharply, looking up. Like Hershel, he knew the last time that had happened was Forbodium. He then shook his head slightly. "We need more data. Perhaps he was busy and just ignored the call?"

"He would never," Hershel said seriously. Both of the younger men looked at him, and Violet moved closer.

John finally remembered his manners.

"Oh, uh, please, sit," he said, indicating the couch. "Tea?"

"Unfortunately, we are all out of Belle Classic tea," Sherlock added, glancing at a small spot on the hem of the Professor's left sleeve, no doubt made by the man's favorite drink. "But we have Earl Gray."

"That's fine," the professor said. John looked at Sherlock, surprised he knew which tea they had, before shrugging, going to put the kettle on. Hershel looked at Sherlock. "Ever since Forbodium, Alfendi and I have grown even closer. Nearly loosing someone can do that to you," he said softly.

"What do you think of his new… personality?" John asked from the kitchen. Violet looked down, and Hershel wrapped an arm around her.

"It's much different, I'll admit, but he's still Alfendi," the professor replied. "It's a bit of a relief not to have to remind him of his manners so much… but I do miss his energy." The man sighed. He looked at Sherlock once more. "It's because of how close we are that I know Alfendi wouldn't ignore a call from me. Especially since I hardly talk on the phone."

"He doesn't like it," Violet said with a giggle. Sherlock smiled slightly.

"I know. I can tell," he said with a wink at her. He then pulled out his phone, shooting a text, first to Alfendi. He was then composing one for Lestrade when something began to ring from his desk. Four pairs of eyes swiveled over, before Sherlock dove for the piece of furniture, pulling out a phone. First he checked The Woman's. It was dead. He dug a moment more before pulling out another phone, this one in a shockingly pink case.

Horror crossed John's face. Sherlock looked up at the him and Hershel, before answering it, slowly putting it to his ear.

"Hello?"

…

 **A/N:** Dun dun duuuuuuuun! Yes, that phone is the very same from "The Great Game." Also, I've never been able to imagine Alfendi and Hershel growing distant. If Hershel calls him (or any of his kids for that matter), they usually answer right away. Because if a phonephobe like Hershel is calling, they know something must be wrong.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Another chapter! Things will really pick up here!

…

Chapter Three

"Hello?" Sherlock asked, holding the pink phone to his ear. On the other end of the line, he heard someone take a shaky breath.

"Hello, Sherlock… It's been… a while."

Sherlock made several deductions about the voice at once.

Shaky: the speaker was terrified.

Unfamiliar: he'd never met the other man in his life.

Halting: the other man was reading what he was saying.

"Mortiarty," Sherlock said coolly.

John scowled, while worry crossed Hershel's face.

"You haven't forgotten… about our… last game then. I see… you have guests. Be a dear… and put me… on speaker."

Sherlock quickly glanced around the apartment, making a mental note later to do a sweep for hidden cameras, as he put the phone on speaker.

"There."

"Much better… Can everyone… hear me?"

"Luke," Hershel gasped, leaning forward. Violet gripped her grandfather's sleeve while Sherlock looked at the elder man sharply. There was a gasp from the man on the other end of the line – a catching of breath to say something – and Sherlock leaned closer to the phone.

"No, Luke. Don't say a word. Do not deviate from his instructions. I'm sure Mortiarty has already made the consequences quite clear," he said, meeting John's and Hershel's eyes above the phone. Hershel had, of course, heard about the dangerous game Mortiarty had played with Sherlock not too long ago that included putting victim's into bomb vests. Hershel's heart dropped, and he wrapped an arm around Violet, pulling her even closer.

Another gasp from the other end of the phone, then nothing but Luke's elevated breathing for a few minutes. The tension was enough to drive the three in Baker Street mad. Only John could imagine what Luke was feeling, having been in this situation himself.

"Very good… Sherlock," he finally said in that halting way of someone reading. Sherlock let out a relieved breath. "Looks like… you managed to… save quite a few lives… For now... The rules have changed… Luke here… is my only game piece… this time."

"But of course, there will be more than one puzzle to solve," Sherlock supplied.

"Good to see… you're still as… sharp as ever… Are you ready?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Good… _Though not my… first home… nor my current… the clue to the… puzzle to enter… still applies… you can do nothing… to enter my room…_ "

Luke gasped, a sound Hershel recognized as his former apprentice solving a puzzle.

"No, Luke. Remember. Stay quiet," he quickly said. There was silence for a moment, before Luke hung up. John glanced at the other two.

"He did change the rules this time," he said.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. "It's a riddle rather than a body this time. Fitting, really," he muttered, glancing over at the puzzle solving king. Hershel had pulled his hat down over his eyes, worried about both Luke and Alfendi now. Violet tugged on his sleeve.

"You already know the answer, right Grandpa? You know the answer, and we can go save Uncle Luke… right?"

Hershel blinked and looked down at the young girl, whose eyes were watering. He smiled slightly.

"I'm not sure of the answer yet, my dear. I need to clear my head and think about it," he replied, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Thank you for reminding me of that," he said. Violet beamed up at him as he wiped her tears with his thumb and applied his mind to the riddle.

 _Though not my first home, nor my current, the clue to the puzzle to enter still applies: You can do nothing to enter my room._

Sherlock had his eyes closed, his eyelids flickering like crazy. John knew he had entered his mind palace, probably going over every little detail he knew of Mortiarty in an attempt to learn about his previous places of residency. John had no clue where to start with the riddle, so instead, he walked upstairs to get ready for a dangerous romp across London.

Hershel, on the other hand, was looking at this from a different angle. What if, despite Luke being forced to read Mortiarty's words, the riddle was about Luke himself?

The professor suddenly gasped. Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace and turned to look at him. John, who had just reentered the room, looked over at the professor as well.

"That's it. I know where we must go," he said. Just then, the pink phone let of a _ping!_ Sherlock picked it up, while Hershel pulled out his own mobile, ready to call Flora to see if he could drop Violet off. The look on John's face, who had moved over to see the pink phone, made his hand freeze on the screen. It had paled, and he was staring at Violet.

"What is it, Dr. Watson?" Hershel asked in a low voice. Sherlock found his voice first.

"Mortiarty demands that she comes too. Probably because she heard everything," he said, holding up the phone for Hershel to see. It was a picture of the four of them sitting around the pink phone that Sherlock held. Sherlock was in the middle of yelling at the phone, no doubt the moment when he was reminding Luke not to say anything more than what the madman wanted him to say.

Violet had been standing, looking up at the phone. She was circled in a white outline that, to John, looked a little too much like the white body outlines they did at crime scenes. A caption was attached.

' _Even the youngest player must play the game._ '

Hershel felt sick.

…

 _The Previous Day_

Alfendi had left work once he finally finished filing his paperwork for the case Sherlock had helped him solve, ready to grab dinner with Luke. It had been a while since he'd seen the older man who had followed so closely in his father's footsteps.

Not that Alfendi was jealous of Luke, even before Forbodium. Not only had he always been happy for the older man, but he never, ever wanted to be a professor or an Archeologist. He and Luke were close, then and now. In fact, Luke was close with all of the Layton kids (including Flora, of course).

It was this point exactly that made Alfendi so comfortable around Luke, and willing to meet him for dinner.

As he walked to Angelo's, he thought back to the last time he had visited Luke at Kurain Village, in California: his current home. It had been about five years ago. Alfendi's thin lips curved into a sad smile as he remembered fencing with Luke.

He didn't much like fencing these days. He got too tired, too quickly anymore.

He turned the corner onto a quieter street, taking a short cut, when he spotted something that chilled him to the bone. Luke had his back pressed against a wall. He was surrounded by three thugs, and there was a van idling in front of him. A frown passed over Alfendi's face, and with the ease of years of training and practice, he drew his Yard issued pistol in his right hand, and his badge with his left.

"Freeze in the name of the Yard!" he called, wishing his voice sounded as forceful as it used to. Only one thug turned to face him. Luke had looked over.

"Alfendi, watch out!" he yelled. Before the Inspector could move, he felt a sharp prick on the side of his neck. He jerked away, but the ground suddenly tipped. Alfendi dropped his gun and staggered, still swatting at his neck, as he fell, the world spinning around him.

Just then, a man in a suit hopped out of the van and seemed to almost skip over the felled Inspector. He scooped up Alfendi's dropped gun and held it to the young man's head, looking up at Luke with a grin. Luke froze, reading insanity in the man's eyes.

"Well, isn't this interesting? Not dull at all, I'd have to say," the man said with a chuckle. "Come along, get in the van, Luke. We don't have all day. The good Inspector definitely doesn't if you take too long," he said cheerfully. Luke hesitated only a moment more before allowing himself to be tired up and thrown into the back of the van. Another thug picked up Alfendi and threw him into the back roughly, slamming the door closed.

The well-dressed man reached down and picked up Alfendi's badge with a grin.

"This will be an interesting game indeed," Mortiarty muttered to himself as he tucked the gun and badge away, climbing into the passenger seat of the van.

…

 _Present Time_

Consciousness slowly came back to Alfendi, and with it, alarming realizations. The first was that he couldn't see: he was blindfolded.

He couldn't move his arms: they were tied behind his back.

His body was heavy: he had been drugged, and it was still in his system.

A small groan escaped him as he lifted his head. Mortiarty glanced over with a smirk, finished typing something on his phone, and hit send.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Alfendi Layton," he said, going over to the young man. Alfendi shook his head, equal parts to clear it and to dislodge the blindfold.

"Where are we? What do you want we me?" he demanded, his voice slightly slurred.

"Where we are? That's a surprise," Mortiarty said in absolute glee. "As for what I want with you, Alfendi, well, that's to play a little game."

"A game? Like those bombs?" Alfendi asked, referring to when the madman had rigged innocent people up with the vests, all to play a sick puzzle-like game with _the_ Sherlock Holmes. It was like a twisted version of a puzzle scavenger hunt. Mortiarty chuckled.

"Exactly, though with only one piece this time," he said. Alfendi's head slowly lifted.

"Luke."

"Correct again. That's not the only reason though," Mortiarty sighed, suddenly grabbing Alfendi's chin and lifting his head. He tipped the slim face closer to a light, studying the slightest notch in Alfendi's nose, almost invisible, from where it was broken in a fight when he was younger. "You used to be so interesting. But now you're boring. No, worse. _Normal_. Whatever happened in that glorious little head of yours?" Mortiarty whined as he let go of Alfendi's chin and knocked on his head.

"No one knows," Alfendi answered honestly, his voice low as he ducked away from the man's knocking fist.

"That's because normal people are so stupid. So stupid," Mortiarty lamented. "It's enough to drive us psychopaths to mass-murdering!" He stepped away from the man. "No matter. We'll bring you back. After all, once a psychopath, always a psychopath."

…

Sherlock watched out the passenger window of the Laytonmobile as the professor weaved through London traffic, while John sat in the back, talking to Violet. Finally, the consulting detective turned to Hershel.

"So, where are we going?"

"Luke's old home, from when he lived in London," Hershel said. Sherlock frowned slightly, looking out. John could tell Sherlock was confused, but he was too proud to admit it. So, John asked for him.

"Why there?"

"The puzzle. The first time I met Luke, he and his father weren't getting along. I had to solve a puzzle to enter his room. The hint was: 'you can do nothing to enter my room,'" Hershel explained. Sherlock's head jerked up at that, but the professor continued. "His _first_ home, where he was born, was in Misthallary. He and his parents moved to London for a few years, then to America. All of this together leads me to believe that this is the place." He stopped in front of a nondescript house that was not too far away from Gressensheller and his own flat. The group got out of the car and walked over to the front door. Sherlock peaked into a window as they passed.

"Unoccupied, but fully furnished. Old fashion and out of date. No one's lived here for quite a few years," he said. Hershel glanced at Sherlock, before glancing in the window himself. A small gasp escaped him.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It's furnished exactly as it was when the Tritons lived here," he admitted.

"Hm… neat," Sherlock said with a grin, before dropping to one knee, working on the lock pick.

"Grandpa…" Violet muttered.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes is just like how Uncle Fendi used to be." The little girl looked down. "I miss that Uncle Fendi…"

Hershel sighed softly, wrapping an arm around her.

"I know, dear. I miss him too," he admitted, just as there was a soft click, and the door swung open. Sherlock glanced at them.

Be careful. We have no way of knowing if the house is booby trapped or not," he said. John nodded, carefully moving forward, while Hershel gripped Violet's hand to make sure she wouldn't wonder.

The four moved quickly through the house. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock realized the house wasn't unoccupied as long as he had first assumed. There was a layer of dust over everything, but it only looked to be about three weeks old.

It honestly didn't surprise him. Mortiarty was a planner, after all. Buying and redecorating would be a cakewalk for him.

Remembering the professor said the puzzle was to enter Luke's room, the four ascended the stairs. There were three doors up here: two bedrooms, one bathroom.

"Look, a teddy bear!" Violet chirped, pointing to one of the doors. She was right. Sitting on a chair in front of one of the rooms was a stool with a teddy bear on top. Hershel walked to it, glanced at first the bear, then the door, and knocked.

There was a soft click, and a _whirl_ from the bear, before a recorded voice began.

" _My sound was stolen, yet then returned,_

 _Through heavenly bodies, my insides churned._

 _Open the path, go on through,_

 _It is here that you'll find your very next clue."_

"Another riddle," Hershel muttered.

"Sung to us by Mortiarty himself," Sherlock muttered, thinking over the words. His eyes popped open. "Oh… that is brilliant. _Brilliant_. Right clever that is," he muttered.

"What's brilliant and clever?" John demanded.

"This! Mortiarty. Don't you see, John? The two he kidnapped have been clues to these past two riddles. They're answers that have to do with Professor Layton himself!"

"Why, I believe you're right, Mr. Holmes. First Luke's home, then one of my cases."

"I was young at the time, but I remember it clearly," Sherlock said. "Don Paulo threatened to steal the bell of Big Ben. It didn't ring for three days. But you, _and Luke_ , solved the mystery. Paulo didn't steal the bell, he just prevented it from ringing."

"' _My sound was stolen, yet then returned!'"_ Violet said brightly.

"Yes. And we had to use gears shaped as a star, a sun, and a moon to solve the mystery," Hershel said, thinking back.

"' _Through heavenly bodies, my insides churned,_ '" John added.

"So, we must go to Big Ben and open the path to find the next clue," Sherlock concluded, striding away from the bear and back down the steps.

"Sherlock," John said softly, following him, "has it occurred to you—"

"Probably," Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes.

" _Has it occurred to you_ why Mortiarty is playing this game, this time?" John asked, keeping his voice low. Sherlock slowed slightly, glancing at him. "He'd have no reason to do anything with an American based archeologist like Luke, right?"

"Right," Sherlock said slowly. "But Alfendi is different. Mortiarty must have been as interested in him as he was me, but it's harder to play with an official Yarder," he mused.

"But then Forbodium happened," John said.

"And Alfendi changed."

"Right."

The two men glanced back at Hershel, who hadn't heard their conversation.

"Is everything alright?" he asked. John gave him a tight smile and nodded, following Sherlock down the rest of the steps and out the door. Hershel wasn't stupid though.

 _Alfendi. Luke. Please be okay,_ he thought, following them out.

…

 **A/N:** Wouldn't be a Layton story without some puzzles! And Mortiarty said he likes riddles, soooo….

The Big Ben case is from the opening to _Professor Layton and the Eternal Diva_ by the way.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Another chapter down!

I don't know how they enter Big Ben… so I just jumped right into them being there. Now, ONWARDS!

…

Chapter Four

Violet's eyes were huge as she followed the three men through the bell tower, taking in the huge gears that were spinning just above their heads. Hershel had told them all about this particular case as they made their way here, but it was a story Violet had heard many times.

Now, here they were. Hershel stooped down to pick up the heavy sun, star, and moon gears, when John offered to do it for him. They placed them in the correct spots, and a door opened right out onto the ledge.

"Whoa!" Violet breathed.

Just then, the pink phone rang. Sherlock immediately answered, putting it on speaker.

"Very good… Professor. I see your… little groups has… already blown through… two puzzles," Luke's shaking, halting voice came from the phone.

"How many more games are you going to play with us, Mortiarty?" Sherlock snapped.

"As many as… it takes. I wonder if… you're the jealous… type, Sherlock. I bet you… are."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock snapped.

"You weren't… the only crime fighter… I was interested in." Luke's voice suddenly caught, and they heard him choke back a surprised sound. "A-Alfendi was… just as interesting…" Luke's voice trembled even more at this statement.

"I guess you really are so changeable," Sherlock spat. John knew it wasn't out of jealousy though. Mortiarty had just confirmed he had Alfendi: Sherlock was worried in his own way.

"You really are… fun, Sherlock… but Alfendi… there was… one of the… most extraordinary… and interesting… brains I had seen… so much like… his father—" Luke's voice broke here again. Hershel frowned, thinking back to Alfendi's biological father.

"I hope this time…. When little Alfendi snaps… he'll be much more… like that man," Luke's voice shook even more as the message went on. It got hard to understand him. With the last work, Luke hung up.

"His father?" John asked, looking at Hershel.

"Alfendi's biological father. His name was Fallard Smith," he explained softly.

"He lived and prowled Monte d'Or," Sherlock said. Violet's eyes were wide.

"Why is that man being so mean to Uncle Fendi?" she demanded. Sherlock huffed slightly, looking for their next clue. Hershel crouched in front of his granddaughter.

"Because he's just a bad man, that's all. Don't worry, we'll get him back," Hershel said. The little girl nodded and hugged him.

"It's not here!" Sherlock suddenly snapped.

"What's not?" John asked.

"The next clue. Why would Mortiarty lead us here, then not leave the next clue?"

Suddenly, John's mobile let out a _ping!_ Three sets of eyes turned on him as he opened the message. He took one look at it and paled.

"What, what is it?" Sherlock demanded, rushing over and snatching the phone. Even Hershel came over to look, Violet clinging to his hand.

On the screen was a huge, white building, clearly a hospital by the red cross adorning the front. Superimposed over the image was a picture of a halo made of laurel leaves. Inside was a staff with a snake wrapped around it. Over the leaves was a royal crown, and beneath, a scroll with the words _'IN ARDUIS FIDELIS.'_ Sherlock recognized it: he had seen the insignia on some of John's possessions from his time in the army.

"We were wrong," John said slowly. "Unless Professor Layton had ever been part of the RAMC, this has nothing to do with him."

"That's not a picture of it, but it can only mean the Queen Elizabeth Hospital of Birmingham," Sherlock said. Hershel nodded.

"I know where that is. Come, let's get moving," he said, leading the way out.

"Grandpa? What's RAMC?" Violet asked.

"The Royal Army Medical Corps," Hershel explained. John squeezed his phone, while Sherlock shot him a sidelong glance.

…

John always thought the Professor would drive the same way he did everything in life: politely. Like a perfect gentleman. However, that was not the case when someone was in danger. Or numerous someones, in this case.

The problem with this game is that they had no idea where Luke was. He could be at any of the locations they were being sent, and the longer they took, the slimmer the chances were that they'd reach him before the bomb went off.

That's how the group found themselves at RAMC's main hospital so quickly. John took the lead this time, having already called an old friend from the army to allow them access. A man in a doctor's uniform, wearing the pin Mortiarty had used in his clue, met them now.

"Captain Garrett Greaves of RAMC," the man said, saluting John. John returned the gesture.

"Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and formally RAMC," he said, before dropping his hand and shaking the doctor's. It's nice to meet you, Captain Greaves. I assume Major White got ahold of you then?"

"Of course, Captain Watson. He said you and your companions needed to look into something?" Greaves asked. Sherlock, who was getting impatient, stepped forward.

"Yes, yes, this is all interesting. Has there been anyone here who didn't belong?" he snapped.

"Sherlock!" John scolded. Greaves was taken aback, but shook his head.

"No. Major White told us to check the cameras, but there was nothing," he said.

"Then perhaps our puzzle is on the roof? Are there any cameras there, Captain?" Hershel asked, tipping his top-hat to the man. The captain thought that through before slowly shaking his head.

"No… there's not," he said slowly.

"Then that's where we must go," Sherlock said, leading the way. John sighed, but smiled slightly at Greaves.

"Thank you, Captain. I'm… sorry about him. We shouldn't be long," John said before hurrying to catch up with the others.

…

They were not disappointed.

On the roof was a dark green parka with a hood, lined with off-white faux fur. Sherlock darted over to it, already snapping on gloves, and picked it up. He quickly examined it, spotting short strands of sandy blond hair on the shoulders. He gave it a quick sniff, and froze. It smelled like the inside of one of those vacuum bags.

But beneath that was the smell of chlorine.

And John's aftershave.

His head snapped up, and he stared at John, realizing he'd seen him in _this exact parka_ before.

The pink phone went _ding!_ He opened the new message.

' _Thought Johnny-boy might like his jacket back. He looked so sexy in it. XX'_

Attached was a picture of John wearing the jacket, holding it open to reveal the bomb vest he had worn under it.

"Sherlock? Is that…?" John started, staring at the parka. Sherlock threw it down back onto the roof.

"Yes," he snapped, striding past them. John looked back at the jacket, knowing exactly where they had to go now.

"Come on," he said to Hershel and Violet, following the detective.

…

Hershel slowed his car to a stop outside of the community pool.

"Here we are," he said, looking back at the others. Sherlock immediately got out of the car, John close on his heels. As Hershel and Violet got out, Sherlock stopped.

"You two should stay out here," he suddenly said.

"What?" Violet squeaked.

"I cannot allow you to go in by yourselves," Hershel said, tipping his hat over his eyes slightly. "A true gentleman never lets friends go into danger alone."

"He won't be alone. He has me," John said, patting his pocket to make sure his gun was still there.

"Besides, I would prefer not to take a child into this, yet we cannot leave her out here by herself," Sherlock added. John glanced over at his companion, slightly surprised, but pleased that he was thinking of Violet.

Hershel glanced down at his granddaughter, before nodding solemnly.

"You're right. We will stay out here," he agreed.

"Aw…" Violet mumbled. Sherlock smiled slightly before striding forward.

"Come along, John," he said.

"Right," John said, jogging to catch up with him. Goosebumps washed over his skin as they entered the building. The last time he was here, he had close brushes with death a few times. Part of him wondered if this time, it'd be even closer.

Sherlock seemed to think so.

However, when they reached the pool area, it was empty. Sherlock was on the move, darting this way and that, searching for clues like a bloodhound. John held his gun, the tremor in his left hand gone. He slowly crept forward, eyes darting around everywhere.

He didn't relax until both he and Sherlock came to the same conclusion.

"There's no one here," John said.

"There's also nothing here," Sherlock growled. John glanced over at him.

"What?"

"Exactly what I said. There's nothing here. No clue, no puzzle, nothing!" he ranted.

"Unless it's not something for you to see…" John said softly. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, before realization struck.

"That's it! John, you truly are a conductor of light! Each location has been important for each of us. For Luke, it was his old house. For the Professor, Big Ben. You, the hospital, and me, here, where it all began. That's just leaves Alfendi left," Sherlock said.

"Or Violet," John reminded him.

"Or—" Sherlock and John looked at each other quickly, before darting out of the pool and back to their companions.

…

 **A/N:** And you all thought it was just locations important to the professor!


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Here we go! For those of you who read my other story, _Professor Layton and the Seer_ , this goes a little deeper into what happened when Alfendi was still living with his psychotic father.

…

Chapter Five

Alfendi, with nothing better to do, had been dozing since Mortiarty left. However, his head jerked up when he heard the door open up somewhere behind him. Despite the blindfold, he still lifted his chin, trying to listen for his captor.

"Good morning, Inspector," Mortiarty said, sitting in a chair he placed across from Alfendi's. Alfendi simply frowned. "I've been looking into your past, and my, what potential you have!" Still, Alfendi said nothing. "Especially with a father like Fallard Smith."

Alfendi stiffened.

"Fallard is not my father. Hershel Layton is," he growled.

"Ah, but blood is so much more important than law, my dear Inspector. Oops, I almost forgot." Mortiarty pulled out his phone and began texting.

…

As Sherlock and John reached the Laytonmobile, the pink phone rang again. Sherlock stumbled to a halt, pulling it out and answering it on speaker.

"Hello?"

"How are you… enjoying my game… Sherlock?"

"It's actually quite dull, Mortiarty," Sherlock said, glancing at the others.

"Now don't… be like that… Sherlock. I see you and… your friends… running around out… there. Did you… find anything at… the pool?" John frowned at the sound of Luke's voice. He was still terrified, but exhaustion was creeping in to. His doctor's instincts kicked in, but he stayed silent for now.

"You know we didn't," Sherlock growled.

"That's because this… puzzle is for… the little one. Violet, was her… name? _Oh god…_ " The group stiffened at hearing Luke's breathy exclamation that they knew was not dictated by Mortiarty. Silence reigned for a moment before Luke started again.

"I will… excuse that only… once." A collective sigh of relief left the group, including from Luke himself. "Now then… no one is allowed… to give Violet… a hint. Are you ready… honey?" Acid dripped from Luke's voice at the pet name that Mortiarty made him use. Violet looked up at the phone.

"Y-yes…" she said.

"Good.

 _I am loved… and hated… all the same._

 _If it weren't required… none would have came._

 _Five days a… week, beginning… in fall,_

 _Tell me… what am I called?"_

Luke gasped as soon as he finished speaking, no doubt having the answer. Even John had figured this one out within a few seconds.

The issue was, none of them could give Violet a hint. Hershel knew, however, that his granddaughter was not dumb. She had both of her parents' brains, and both Flora and Eric were good at puzzles.

It didn't take long at all for Violet to look up.

"School. The answer is school. Do you mean my school?"

"Bingo…" Luke said. "Better hurry… tonight is family… night… wouldn't want to… end it with… a bang…" Luke hung up.

"We need to find him fast. He can't take much more of this," John said as they climbed back into the car. Hershel nodded in agreement.

"Yes. He was already jetlagged from travelling, I'm sure. And his nerves are probably fraying by the minute," Hershel agreed. John nodded in worry. Violet buckled herself into the back seat, pride at solving the riddle mingling with fear and worry for her two uncles.

Once everyone was in, Hershel took off.

…

"There we go," Mortiarty said, putting his phone aside with a smirk, before turning his attention back to the tied up, young man in front of him. "Well, Inspector. I'd like to hear more about Fallard. What was he like to live with? How did he pick his victims? What were their deaths like? I'm sure you witnessed a few," he said. Alfendi didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his lips together.

The amiable smile on Mortiarty's face dropped, and he picked his phone back up.

"I suggest you tell me what I want to know, Alfendi. Or I'll just tell my little sniper to go ahead and shoot. Then… BOOM!" Alfendi jumped at the sudden yell. "Many people will die, and poor, poor Luke. He'll be at the center of it all. Well… some of him will be. Other parts of him will most likely scatter…"

"Fine!" Alfendi said. "I-I'll tell you. Just… please. Don't hurt anyone."

"Good. Now then, from the beginning."

And Alfendi told him what life was like before he was adopted by Hershel Layton. The abuse and the fear he lived in. How Fallard would kill people, just for the _fun_ of it. How cold and calculating Fallard was with the deaths, the location, everything. How he made Alfendi watch a few of the murders, including that of his own biological mother, Fallard hoping to make him into the same kind of monster he was. How Alfendi himself had tried to stop the murders, before Fallard put the gun in his hand and pointed him directly at the professor.

And finally, how Alfendi had turned the gun onto Fallard himself, and killed him.

It was hard. It took a lot of Alfendi's effort to keep talking, though fear propelled his words. Fear for Luke and who knows who else. So he kept talking, even as tremors began to wrack his body, and exhaustion started to take hold.

He really did get too tired, too fast.

…

Sherlock, John, Hershel, and Violet quickly arrived at Violet's school. To Hershel's horror, the school was packed with students and family. Like Mortiarty had reminded them, it was family night. The group quickly searched for Luke.

"He wouldn't be around a lot of people. After all, with his accent and a bulky coat on inside, he'd be suspicious right off the bat," Sherlock reasoned.

"Most of the people are on the first floor, meaning we should check the second floor," Hershel said.

"We should also call bomb disposal," John said. Sherlock nodded, giving him the okay, while they hurried up the stairs.

The classrooms were dark on this floor. John quickly alerted Greg what was happening and where they were at, before joining the search.

Suddenly, John noticed something from one of the windows in the doors. A laser sight, trained directly at Sherlock's head.

"GET DOWN!" he yelled, tackling Sherlock to the floor. There was a sudden, loud _crack!_ , and glass shattered over them. Violet cried out in fear. John was instantly on his feet, holding his gun. He rolled into the classroom and hid behind a desk, his keen eyes hunting out the source of the sniper's bullet.

It didn't take him long, and he popped up over the desk, shoot out the shattered window at a figure on the roof across the street. "Go find Luke!" he yelled at the others.

"Right!" Sherlock called. John hid again as another bullet whizzed past his ear, slamming into the wall behind him.

Sherlock, Hershel, and Violet ran down the hall, ducking under any windows so as to not make themselves a target, until they reached a room that had a light on in it. Sherlock's sharp ears made out the sounds of hyperventilating from inside, and immediately dove into the room. The man he met the previous day, Luke Triton, was sitting on the ground against the wall in full view of the window. He was clutching two phones in his shaking hands, a vest full of explosives strapped over his sweater. His pupils were dilated, his nostrils flaring with each too quick, too shallow breath.

"Luke!" he hissed from where he was hiding behind a desk. The young man jumped violently, his head whipping around. Sherlock frowned, knowing his legs would support him, and darted out of his cover. He half dragged, half supported the young man into the hall as quickly as possible, hoping that John was keeping the sniper busy.

No bullet came. Sherlock got Luke into the relative safety of the hall. He went to rip the jacket off of him, like he had done for John, but Hershel caught his hand.

"What?" he demanded.

"Look," Hershel said, nodding to the zipper pull. There was a taunt wire threaded through it. Unzipping the vest would probably make the bomb go off.

"Damn," Sherlock growled.

"P-Professor…" Luke breathed, dropping one of the phones and latching onto the older man's hand like a lifeline.

"Sherlock! Is everyone okay?" John called, darting down the hall to meet them. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief at seeing him okay.

"Relatively. The sniper?"

"Gone. Escaped," John admitted, before noticing where Luke was sitting on the ground. His eyes scanned over him, noting the zipper pull, before he dropped down onto one knee next to Luke, quickly checking him for injury. Luke still didn't let go of Hershel's hand.

"Is he okay?" Violet asked softly.

"Panic attack," John said. "Culminating in shock. Come on, Luke, I need you to try and take deep breaths. We'll get that off of you in no time," John said softly to the man.

No sooner had the words left his mouth then the bomb removal squad arrived on the scene, along with paramedics. They managed to carefully get Luke out of the bomb vest and disable it. The paramedics gave him oxygen to help with the hyperventilating, and Violet and Hershel talked to him soothingly, until finally, the panic attack and shock faded.

"Luke, how long were you in that thing?" John asked. Luke closed his eyes for a moment.

"Since yesterday, around dinner time. He put me in that room, handed me two cell phones, and told me I had to follow his instructions closely. If I didn't… a lot of people – _elementary students –_ would…" he trailed off.

"Close to twenty-four hours. That's how long he's had Alfendi too," Sherlock said. Luke's head snapped up.

"You still haven't found him?" he demanded.

"Unfortunately, no," Hershel admitted.

Just then, one of the phones went off. Luke almost jumped out of his skin, his breathing picking up again at the sound. Violet hugged him, calming him down again.

Sherlock picked it up and looked at the words on the screen, a scowl crossing his face.

"What is it?" Hershel asked. Sherlock showed him and John.

"' _The last Jigsaw Puzzle Piece_ '," Sherlock said, repeated the words. His and Hershel's eyes met.

"Not there…" Hershel said softly. Sherlock nodded.

"There. Each place we've been lead holds significance to each of us. This last one is Alfendi's."

…

 **A/N:** Poor Luke! He was trapped in that thing longer than any of Mortiarty's other victims, on top of being jetlagged! He managed to stay so strong too, until near the end there, when he _finally_ had a panic attack… Why do I do this again?

Oh yeah… high stakes are fun. Heh.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Aaaaaaaaand… I'm back! This was supposed to be up last night, but I fell asleep while I was writing it. Then I had errands to run today. I decided to just merge the last chapter and epilogue together. Enjoy!

…

Chapter Six

Alfendi could feel his captor circling him. The man, though there was amusement in his voice, seemed to be getting impatient.

Alfendi knew what Mortiarty wanted. Mortiarty wanted Alfendi to snap and become his old self. Why else would he ask about Fallard, and place him in such a stressful situation?

But that wasn't going to happen. Alfendi knew that, because he knew himself. And he wasn't his old self anymore.

"Well, I guess there's just one more thing to try," Mortiarty sighed as he passed behind Alfendi again. The blindfold was suddenly removed, and Alfendi saw where he was for the first time.

Forbodium Castle, the west tower roof.

It hadn't changed in four years.

Pain lanced through Alfendi's head, just behind his eyes, and he left out a gasp, dropping his chin back to his chest.

…

Sherlock, John, and Hershel were silent on the ride to the castle. John, with the steadfast practicality of a soldier, was checking and cleaning his gun. Hershel was trying to focus on the road and not think about what was probably currently happening to his son. Sherlock was studying a map of the castle, formulating the best plan.

With Luke no longer under threat, the first thing they did was call Flora and Eric, who picked both Luke and Violet up. Hershel was grateful, knowing those two would look after Luke for him. The young man was still trembling slightly when they left.

Hershel finally slowed to a stop in front of the castle, putting the car in park, and turning it off.

"Maybe you should stay here…" John tried.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, but I can't. Alfendi might need me when we find him, much like Luke," the professor said.

"He's right," Sherlock added, getting out of the car.

"I… alright. Just, stick close to Sherlock. I'll bring up the rear," John sighed, following them in.

…

Mortiarty smirked as he saw the effect the place was having on the Inspector. He decided to take it further.

"I see you remember this place well," he said with a chuckle. "I'm actually surprise! I'd have thought, with you so intent on killing Keelan…" Mortiarty made the shape of a gun with his fingers, and slowly raised them to Alfendi's head. Alfendi didn't notice though, as he shook his head slightly, like he was trying to get rid of the pain.

"Just one bullet. That's all it took. One. Right to the head." Mortiarty crooked his thumb. " _Pop!_ " he said, popping his lips on the second p. Alfendi groaned, the pain in his head getting worse. "Of course, you didn't walk away _entirely_ unscratched," the madman continued, lowering his handgun to point it at Alfendi's torso. " _Pop!_ "

Alfendi scrunched his eyes against the blinding pain originating from behind them, another groan escaping him.

…

To say it was easy to get through the castle would have been a downright lie. Sherlock knew the Consulting Criminal had a network of people working for him – how couldn't he? – but he never imagined it would be this many people.

John, Sherlock noted with admiration, was right at home, sneaking through the shadows to avoid enemy detection. Sherlock knew that was all thanks to John's military training, and found himself, once again, thankful the man had received it.

Sherlock lead them through the maze-like castle, until, finally, they neared the west tower.

…

Alfendi struggled against the binds keeping him trapped in the chair, just as much as he struggled against the blinding migraine that was pulsing behind his eyes. Mortiarty smirks, checking his phone.

"Any second now," he muttered, leaving Alfendi alone. He tapped on his phone a few times, bringing up a live feed of the scene on the roof.

…

The trio finally made it to the staircase leading to the roof of the west tower. They could hear groans and grunts coming from above them.

Hershel immediately recognized the voice as Alfendi's. They carefully mounted the steps.

However, their caution was unneeded. Alfendi was by himself, struggling against the ropes. John immediately recognized a man in pain, and walked over, crouching slightly in front of him. He gently caught Alfendi's chin, turning him to look at his eyes.

"Alfendi, I need to you calm down," John said as Hershel untied the ropes. Alfendi's shoulders tensed. Sherlock noticed a second too late what was about to happen.

"John-!"

As soon as the ropes were loose, Alfendi exploded out of the chair. He wrenched his face free of John's hand and slammed his forehead into John's face. John had started to turn towards Sherlock at the moment, so the blow hit his cheek instead of his nose.

The two men tumbled to the ground, Alfendi on top of John. His moves were frantic. Erratic. He groped blindly at John's neck, wrapping his bony finger's around it, while his other hand searched for his gun. He found it, switched off the safety, and pointed it at John's face.

John raised his hands in defense as Sherlock pulled his own gun from his waistband, pointing it at Alfendi.

"Let him go, now," Sherlock said, his voice low. Alfendi glanced sideways slightly in the direction of the voice.

"N-no… so long as I have your boss…"

 _He thinks I'm Mortiarty!_ John realized. _He's so blind between a migraine and fear…_

And then, the unexpected happened. Alfendi felt arms wrap tightly around him from behind. He stiffened, but realized they were less restraining, and more comforting.

"Alfendi, my boy, it's me. It's your father. You need to calm down and let Dr. Watson go. He was just trying to help you," Hershel said softly, close to Alfendi's ear. This was, to both of them, a familiar situation, stemming from the first month Alfendi had lived with Hershel. Nights when Alfendi would wake up from a nightmare, or when someone did something to really piss him off, Hershel would hug him from behind, hold him close, and talk him down. Alfendi hadn't needed it for four years, but it still made him grow still in its warmth.

No one… _no one_ … gave a hug like Hershel Layton did. Alfendi's finger's loosened on John's neck, letting him take a deep breath. His gun hand shook a little. Hershel carefully reached up and slowly took it, careful not to startle Alfendi. Hershel carefully put the gun behind him, and was about to gently pull Alfendi off of John, when the Inspector's body went limp in his arms.

"A-Alfendi!?" Hershel gasped, worry radiating off of him. John was instantly up and crouching next to him. He relaxed a little.

"He's just fainted. A migraine and exhaustion can do that to someone…" he assured Hershel, who nodded, wrapping his arms tighter around his son. Sherlock slowly tucked his gun away, having watched the whole scene in a curious way.

…

Mortiarty snorted in disgust, watching as John carefully lifted the unconscious Alfendi up and followed Sherlock and Hershel. It had been extremely interesting, watching Alfendi take down an army doctor. Even more so when Sherlock was forced between shooting a friend to save his other friend, or keeping the first one alive at the second one's expense.

Mortiarty had grown excited, eager to see which Sherlock would choose, when that damned Professor interfered, coddling Alfendi until he collapsed.

"How _boring!"_ he snapped, exiting the live feed and snapping off a text.

…

Sherlock glanced at his phone as John situated Alfendi in the back. He couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that crossed his face.

 _I give up on the Inspector. The Yard must drain their employees of all that makes them interesting. XX – JM._

"Good. I'm glad you'll stay away from him then," Sherlock said softly to himself, climbing into the car.

…

A few hours later, Alfendi woke up. He recognized the plain, white walls, and the painfully clean scent of the hospital right away. He turned his head and spotted Hershel, dozing in the chair. Next to him was Luke, who was also asleep. He looked to the other side and spotted John and Sherlock. John was sleep as well, but Sherlock was watching him with hawk-like eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," he muttered. The corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkle when he smiles, softening their gaze. "What happened?"

Sherlock explained everything in a series of short sentences. Alfendi had no questions, though he frowned and looked back at John.

"I… attacked him?"

"You did. Blinded by pain and fear, you must have believed him to be Mortiarty," Sherlock said in an offhanded way. "He's okay. No damage done."

"That's good. Er, thanks, for… you know… coming and finding me," Alfendi stammered, feeling awkward. Sherlock smiled, patting him on the shoulder.

"No problem. Really."

…

A week had past, and things returned back to normal for Alfendi Layton. He smiled slightly at Lestrade, who handed him back the case notes.

"Here's something right up your alley, Layton. A regular 'Hand Sandwich'," the Detective Inspector said. Alfendi flipped through the file, a small smile crossing his face.

"Literally. Alright, sir, I'll get right on it," he said, moving down the steps that lead to the Mystery Room. He hesitated, noting the door was slightly ajar. He listened for a moment.

"Ahem! The true culprit of this crime…" Layton noted the thick accent – _Yorkshire_ – as he opened the door and entered. A woman in a green coat and reddish hat whirled around, pointing at him. "Is you!"

Confusion whirled through Alfendi as he rubbed the back of his head. "An unlikely deduction, I must say," he muttered. The woman jumped, as though not expecting anyone to be there.

"Oh! No, I'm…"

"Who are you?" Alfendi asked.

"Erm, Lucy. I mean, Baker. Lucy Baker," the woman stammered. _Nervous._ "I've just been assigned to this office. _But not a culprit or client. Just hired, then._ That's when it struck Alfendi.

"Ah, yes, I do seem to recall reading some memo about a new assistant the other day," he mused.

"That's me. Pleased to meet you, er…" Lucy trailed off for a moment. "I don't think I caught your name…"

"Oh yes. Sorry. I haven't introduced myself yet, have I?" Alfendi smiled at her. "I'm Alfendi Layton. Inspector Layton around here."

…

Aaaaaaaand… it's done. I'm not really sure I like how this story came out. To me, if feels rushed, and maybe it is. However, it was still a lot of fun to write. Anyways, until next time!


End file.
